


At the Rink

by DK65



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 15:49:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7178345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DK65/pseuds/DK65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skater Sansa Stark and ice hockey player Sandor Clegane meet at the rink when they're both practicing...<br/>These characters belong to GRRM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Rink

He was there with his team mates, practicing for their next big match of the season. It was evening, and they had booked that time-slot for the period they spent in the northern city, playing the Winterfell Wolves. No one else should have been on the rink—the Lannisport Lions played rough, even when they practiced. So why was she there, at the other end of the rink, twirling and whirling away to the music that he could hear playing faintly, even as he smashed his stick against the puck? He could see her red hair fanning out as she moved.

That’s when it happened. He’d hit the puck so hard, even as he was looking at her, that it went all the way across the rink, to where she was practicing. It was fortunate she was able to twirl away from it and move to one side, even as he skated to it and hit it back to where his team mates waited impatiently for him. He would have spoken to her, but he could hear Jaime hollering across the rink: “SANDOR! COME ON! WE DON’T HAVE ALL NIGHT!”

He dipped his head in an apology to her and raced away, smacking the puck more gently as he moved. He continued to practice with his team, but his mind was only half on his game; he was thinking of the redhead, in her blue and red leotards, moving with such swan-like grace across the ice. He wondered who she was. Should he ask the owner of the inn they were staying at, the Wilding’s Rest, about the girl?

Suddenly, he felt the puck hit him hard on the knee; he looked up to see his captain, Jaime Lannister, glaring at him. This finally took his mind off the girl and he was able to concentrate on his game. He was concentrating so hard that he failed to notice when she left.

The practice session was finally over and they were on their way out. He could hear Jaime’s brother, Tyrion, giving the owner of the rink an earful. “Mr Poole, when I booked your rink for my team to practice in the evening, I did not expect someone else to be using it at the same time. Please tell me why this happened.”

The man was stammering. “I’m sorry, Mr Lannister—but this is the time she usually practices here. The Winterfell Wolves practice in the morning, you see—five to nine. So Sansa—she’s the captain’s sister, see, and a very good figure skater—she comes in the evening to practice after school gets over. She’s a teacher, see? And you did book kinda last minute sir, didn’t you, when you came in the afternoon? Otherwise, I could have asked her to come in during her lunch hour. I hope you were not disturbed?”

Tyrion snorted in irritation as they got into the team bus for the Wilding’s Rest. “If the All-Westeros Ice Hockey Tournament was not in session, and the Winter Cup was not at stake, you would not find me here,” he told Jaime, who grunted in agreement.

He did not see the girl again while they stayed in Wintertown and travelled to other points north, playing the Winterfell Wolves, the Night’s Watch Brothers, the White Harbour Mermen, the Hornwood Harriers, the Bolton Bloods and the Last Hearth Giants. He had to agree that the northmen played hard and drank harder—even if all they had at their inns, as Tyrion complained, was brown ale, not the gold of the Arbor or the red of Dorne and certainly not the delicate Summer Island wines that Tyrion so enjoyed. But he found time, when they were resting after matches and before they went into practice, to go to the local library and look up every news story on figure skating in the local papers. And there was plenty.

It appeared that Sansa Stark was a favorite. She’d started out young, and was now close to the level of an all-Westeros champion. He wondered why he had never heard of her, and then realized that he was so absorbed in his own sport that he seldom had time for anything else. He’d been determined to make it to the Lions; it was his only way out of Clegane Keep and away from Gregor. And now that Gregor was dead, killed in an action in Essos, he was stuck in his groove. And the girl, jumping and diving and spinning and whirling, her hair flying in the wind, had broken through to him. He began to think of seeing her again.

They were finally back in Wintertown, to play the Wolves in the final. If they won, they got to carry home the Winter Cup, the highest honor in Westeros for the sport of ice hockey. They’d arrived at noon; they would play a match the next day. They were to rest that afternoon and reassemble at the Poole Rink in the evening. They would practice for two hours and then to bed. “No loitering around the local whorehouse,” commanded Tyrion, who was certain to be there. But then he wasn’t playing; only managing the team.

This time, Tyrion had called ahead from the Dreadfort, after their match with the Bolton Bloods got over, to book the rink for the following evening. Sandor heard him tell the owner to tell his figure skater client about the booking. “I don’t want her getting hurt when my team practices,” he heard him say. “She just about missed tripping on a puck the last time!”

So instead of resting, Sandor slipped out of the inn and snuck into the rink instead. He wanted to see her practice—maybe introduce himself. She hadn’t seen his face the last time; he’d been wearing his gear. He hoped she wouldn’t scream when she saw his face. He didn’t know what he would say to her when they met; he had little or no practice talking to women. Maybe he would just watch her from somewhere where she couldn’t spot him?

He was in luck that day—he saw her perform her entire routine. He didn’t know if she saw him—he sat in the darkest part of the bleachers. He left after her routine ended.

They met, quite by accident, as they were leaving the rink. She was dressed in a charcoal grey dress, over which she wore a black coat. Her red hair, in a simple braid, stood out against its fabric. She turned around and saw him.

He saw her mouth open in shock as she looked at him, and then she closed it. She did not run but stood her ground as he hesitantly walked up to her. He decided it would be a good move to apologize for the puck that he’d hit so hard it had almost slammed into her.

“Miss Stark,” he said nervously. “I wanted to apologize, ma’am.”

“For what, Mr Sandor?” she asked quietly, looking steadily into his eyes.

“For almost hitting you the other day, ma’am, when we were practicing,” he said, wondering how she knew his name, and then thinking, Jaime!

“No harm done,” she said briskly, as she turned, walking out of the rink, with him following her, like a lovesick puppy. “If I had known, I would have come earlier to practice. But it was good to watch you guys play your game… very useful, since my brother’s team played yours the next day and tomorrow too.” She grinned mischievously at him as she walked away. He couldn’t help grinning and shaking his head. So she hadn’t left that evening—she’d stayed on and watched them play. No wonder they were just able to scrape through to a one-all playing Winterfell in their first match. A beauty with brains and well worth knowing… The trip north was not such a waste after all.


End file.
